


Ramifications of Antiquities

by IvoryRaven



Series: Tendrils of the Past Still Hold on [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Harry Potter, Childhood Trauma, Drama & Romance, Gay Harry Potter, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Homophobic Language, I Tried, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Self-Acceptance, Self-Doubt, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvoryRaven/pseuds/IvoryRaven
Summary: Raised by the homophobic Dursleys during the AIDS crisis, a misguided Harry has come to terms with his sexuality but, fearing 'It,' the disease decimating gay communities, is determined to remain celibate.Tom Riddle, now known as Lord Voldemort, has never questioned the teachings of his youth: homosexuality is wrong, and same-sex attraction is an incurable mental disorder. He has been suppressing his sexuality since he first realized it, determined not to be labeled 'mad.'When Harry Potter is brought to him, Lord Voldemort realizes that Harry is his living Horcrux, and resolves to keep the boy.Sparks fly. Attraction blooms. Harry questions whether it's worth risking AIDS when his life is going to be spent locked in Malfoy Manor with a homicidal maniac, and struggles not to let Voldemort into his growing attraction to the surprisingly handsome wizard.Voldemort, having recently reabsorbed the soul pieces from the diary and ring, fights with himself over who he is and what he believes.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Tendrils of the Past Still Hold on [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732315
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49





	1. A Horcrux Found

The scent of blood reached him first. 

Tangy and slightly sweet, his nose curled in displeasure.

Uncle Vernon had gone too far.

He opened his eyes to see a blurry world, and felt his face to confirm what he already knew: his glasses were gone.

He was in the living room. Aunt Petunia’s flower-patterned curtains were drawn. Cushions were neatly arranged on the sofa. A mangled corpse was splayed across the beige carpeted floor.

Wait, what?

Harry looked around the room. One, two, three cadavers, all in various states of destruction! And surrounding them all, long trailing vines, with blooming flowers that looked suspiciously like…

“Neville’s plant!” Harry gasped.

He didn’t have much time to react, though, because four Death Eaters appeared with the signature crack of Apparation. Their wands were drawn and their masks fastened across their faces.

Bellatrix was easily recognized, with her battle-tattered black dress and corset. She giggled, a high, girlish thing, when she saw the bodies.

“What did you do to these people?” asked the shortest of the four Death Eaters.

“Itty bitty Potter is more interesting than we thought,” cooed Bellatrix. “Nice work, Potter!”

“I found them like this!” said Harry, not wanting the approval of any of Voldemort’s followers - especially Bellatrix Lestrange. Realizing what must have been done to the bodies, he retched, spitting up nothing but liquid. He hadn’t eaten in two days - Uncle Vernon had been very angry. Dudley had broken a vase and blamed it on Harry. Aunt Petunia had actually wailed.

“I believe the boy, Bella,” said a Death Eater with ornately patterned black robes and familiar platinum hair. “Let’s not forget our orders. We are to deliver him to the Dark Lord.”

Hary staggered to his feet, the open wounds on his back throbbing, and dove for the window. He would not be taken prisoner!

“Petrificus Totalus,” drawled the fourth Death Eater, and arms grasped around him. He went spinning through what seemed like a dizzying tunnel, and appeared on a polished wooden floor.

“Excellent work,” hissed the cold, high voice of Lord Voldemort. “Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived…”

“My Lord,” said Lucius Malfoy, “there is something you should know. When we found Potter-”

“Legilimens!” cast Voldemort. A few moments later he looked back at Harry, seizing Harry’s chin and forcing him to look up. “Very interesting, Harry Potter,” he said. “Very, very interesting.”

“I found them like that!” Harry gasped. “Uncle Vernon was beating me and I passed out and when I woke up they were like that!”

“Legilimens!” Voldemort cast again, but this time his attention was on Harry. He ripped through Harry’s mind, making no effort to be gentle, flinging memories about and searching for something. Memories passed through Harry’s head as if he were remembering them but faster as Voldemort searched. There was something of a sensation of cold, ice cold fingers digging into his head.

Writing his name on the wall of his cupboard with a pilfered crayon. His first Hogwarts letter. Hagrid taking him to Diagon Alley. Burning Quirrel with his hands. Seeing Hermione, Petrified. The basilisk. The confrontation with Tom Riddle, and the destruction of the diary. Sirius. His hate for Pettigrew. Begging Dumbledore to not go back. His mother’s blood protection. Dumbledore’s suspicion about Harry’s scar.

The cold receded, and the flurry in Harry’s mind calmed somewhat.

“Harry Potter,” hissed Voldemort, who was now cradling Harry’s face with gentle hands and gazing down at him as though he were the most precious thing he had ever seen. 

“Lucius, Severus, Bellatrix, Barty… leave us.”

Barty? “I thought Barty Crouch was Kissed!” Harry said.

Voldemort laughed. “Lord Voldemort takes care of his followers, my dearest. Just as he takes care of his things.” Here, he stroked a finger down the line of Harry’s scar. Which, now that Harry thought about it, wasn’t hurting, which was odd.

“It no longer perceives me as a threat,” Voldemort said, as if he could sense what Harry was thinking. “It is correct. I will not harm you, Harry Potter. You have become most precious to me.”

He returned his attention to his lingering Death Eaters and snapped, “your Lord told you leave! Now leave!”

This time, they did, and Harry was left alone with Lord Voldemort.

“You have granted me a great boon, Harry Potter,” murmured Voldemort. “You will be protected.”

“I don’t want your protection!” snapped Harry, fighting the spell that held his limbs bound. The magic stretched, then broke. He scrambled to his feet.

“Fascinating,” said Voldemort. “Severus is a most talented wizard. You, my dearest, have incredible strength of will to break his spell.”

Harry found himself preening in Voldemort’s praise. “Stop it!” he told himself. He would not enioy Voldemort’s attention - he would not!

“But my dearest, you are injured!” said Voldemort.

Harry scowled. “Bet it makes you happy!”

“On the contrary, if the perpetrator is not already dead he will regret ever being born.”

“He is dead,” said Harry, and found he had very little regret. “And anyway, you don’t know it was a he!”

“‘It’ has never been an acceptable pronoun for humans!” retorted Voldemort. “‘He’ is grammatically correct for a person of unknown gender.”

“Well, we use ‘they’ now,” said Harry, thinking of Hermione. She would probably despise Voldemort’s non-inclusive language even more than the man himself. 

“I see,” said Voldemort. “Well, it is of no matter now. The person who dared touch Lord Voldemort’s possessions is dead.”

“I’m not your possession!” shouted Harry. “And I thought you wanted to kill me!”

“I did. But Lord Voldemort made a grievous mistake, the night he came to Godric’s Hollow, and rendered you a miracle of magic. Now, I have realized my mistake and you, Harry Potter, will be my key to victory!”

Harry frowned. That didn’t make any sense. And… “Why do you keep referring to yourself in third person?”

“Don’t question me, brat!” The yew wand pressed up against Harry’s neck.

“I thought you wanted to keep me safe,” said Harry, testing his luck. “You won’t hurt me.”

The wand moved. “You are correct,” said Voldemort, as if it pained him to say it. “Let us return to the matter at hand: you are injured.”

“You are correct,” mocked Harry in an imitation of Voldemort.

Voldemort sighed. “You’ll see my top Healer. Only the best for my Horcrux.”

“Your - I am not! No! I won’t be your whore!”

“Good Merlin, boy, that is not what I said!” Voldemort pulled Harry to his feet. “My Horcrux, not my whore! As if I would have a male, and indulge that kind of sick abnormality!”

Harry flinched back, wrapping his arms around himself. “How dare you,” he seethed, choking on a lump in his throat, feeling the burning sting of tears welling in his eyes.

“It’s not sick,” Harry whispered fiercely. He was afraid to speak loudly, for fear of dislodging something and letting tears free-fall. “It’s not abnormal. It’s dangerous because we - we die, but in these times we might die anyway!”

“We, Potter?” Voldemort questioned.

Harry let out a stifled sob. He’d accidentally come out to Voldemort! Voldemort, of all people! “Just shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Voldemort hissed in anger. “Come with me!”

Harry let Voldemort drag him around several elegantly decorated corridors and into a room with tall windows and several ornate sofas. “Sit!” Voldemort snapped, and Harry did, bringing his knees to his chest and hugging them to himself.

Voldemort muttered something. A few minutes later a blonde woman in a long, green dress came into the room. “My Lord?” She dipped her head.

“Harry Potter is here. He is to be treated with utmost respect, second only to myself. He is mine, Narcissa - mine! You are to heal the wounds on his back.”

“May I see these wounds, Mr. Potter?” asked Mrs. Malfoy. Draco Malfoy’s mum, Harry thought. Her face was much less pointy than her son’s, and her hair a darker blonde. But the stormy gray eyes were the same.

Harry turned, and pulled off his shirt to reveal the angry red cuts. “Call me Harry,” he said.

“Then you must call me Cissy, dear!” said Narcissa, her demeanor suddenly much warmer. “Goodness, those must be painful. However did you come by those?”

“Muggle,” Harry muttered. He didn’t want to talk about his recently deceased relatives, especially not with Draco Malfoy’s mum.

“Goodness! Those despicable Muggles!” exclaimed Narcissa. “I’m just going to put a healing salve on your back, dear, and then a bandage. Must keep your back clean so it can heal!”

“All right,” said Harry. He stiffened under her fingers as she rubbed the cold, cold salve in.

“Breathe in now, dear,” said Narcissa, unrolling a bandage. While Harry held his breath, she bound his torso and sealed the bandage with a sticking spell. “There! You’ll heal quite nicely, I think. Those were quite the nasty injuries, though, so don’t expect them to be gone overnight.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks, Cissy.”

“Your services are no longer required,” said Voldemort. Harry flinched at the reminder that Voldemort had been watching him in a very vulnerable position.

When Narcissa had gone, Voldemort settled himself on the sofa next to Harry. “You are my Horcrux, dearest.”

Harry remembered Voldemort saying that before. “What does that mean?” he asked.

“You house a piece of my soul,” said Voldemort, reaching up to trace Harry’s scar with a long finger. “Your mother sacrificed herself to save you, initiating a magical contract bound with her blood. If she died at my wand, I would no longer be able to kill you.”

Harry bit his lip. His mother. His only memory of her was of the night she died, the vision the Dementors gave him. Her angry words, her desperation. Her love for him.

“I did kill her,” said Voldemort, and Harry snorted bitterly. He knew that part.

“I did kill her, and the magical contract she had, probably unwittingly, created, stopped me killing you. Blood is a powerful thing. The blood she shared with you marked you as her son, and Lily’s son was not to be killed by me. When I cast the Killing Curse at you, that fateful night, magic itself recognized her protection of you, her… love… for you, and the curse was flung back at me.”

“It hit me, but I have Horcruxes. I split my soul, putting it into several different objects, each of great value, each important enough to house a portion of Lord Voldemort’s soul. I did not realize what I now know: a soul once split is fragile, easily broken again. When the Killing Curse touched me, my body was rendered dead, and my soul… my soul split.”

“No,” breathed Harry, realizing where this was going.

“A part of that soul didn’t quite make it with the rest of me. Instead, it fixed itself to the only other living soul there: you. You, Harry Potter, you are my Horcrux.”

“I’ve got part of you inside me?” whispered Harry, horrified.

“Yes. You are my dearest possession, now that I know. You are mine.”

“I’m not a possession,” Harry argued half-heartedly. “I’m my own person.”

“People do not often stay their own around Lord Voldemort,” said Voldemort. As troubling as this statement was… hadn’t the Death Eaters sworn themselves to this man? Didn’t they bear his mark on their arms?

And wasn’t Voldemort’s war dictating certain things in the lives of everyone in wizarding Britain?


	2. Semblance of Caricature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY  
> Neville gave Harry a plant he created. Harry planted it in his Aunt's garden.
> 
> The plant was protective of Harry and tortured then brutally murdered the Dursleys for their treatment of Harry.
> 
> Death Eaters took Harry to Voldemort, who discovered that Harry is his Horcrux!

“I will take you to your room,” said Voldemort abruptly, standing up and taking Harry by the hand.

Harry stood up and followed Voldemort, spine feeling oddly stiff from the bandage Narcissa had bound his injuries with. 

He paid more attention to his surroundings this time. The building they were in had half wood paneled walls, with creamy wallpaper on the upper half, and paintings of blonde witches and wizards with bored expressions. Elegantly carved wooden stands supported beautifully painted vases full of flowers and peacock feathers. A rather odd assortment, Harry thought.

To think, Draco Malfoy had grown up here while Harry had spent his childhood locked in a puny cupboard! No wonder the Slytherin was entitled - he’d grown up in a mansion! Every now and then Harry and Voldemort passed an open door. The rooms within were gorgeous.

“Here we are,” said Voldemort. “My quarters are next door - I will have Lucius modify the building to accommodate a door connecting the two. We will have a mutual sitting room.”

Voldemort opened the door, revealing a spacious bedroom with a walk-in closet, four-poster bed with crimson curtains, a bedside table with a gold vase containing several peacock feathers, and a bookshelf stocked with a few standard titles. Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Frankenstein, the Grimm Brothers’ Fairytales, Lady Audley’s Secret, The Moonstone. Harry was surprised to see some familiar Muggle titles in the collection.

“Why do the Malfoys have Muggle books?” Harry asked.

Voldemort quirked a brow. “Ask them. It’s their Manor.”

Harry sat on the bed. It was quite possibly the softest thing he’d ever felt.

“Gryffindor colors,” he remarked.

“I thought you’d be more comfortable in a room with a touch of red.”

“You were right,” said Harry. “I’m just surprised you care about my comfort.”

“You are my Horcrux, Harry Potter. Your comfort and relative happiness are important to me. You house a part of my soul.”

“If you want me to be happy, can I leave and stay with the Weasleys?” Harry asked.

Voldemort shook his head. “I cannot trust those blood traitor fools with your safety, my dearest.”

“They’re my friends, though!” Harry asked. “I’d rather die happy than live forever in misery.”

“That, my dearest Horcrux, is where you and I differ,” said Voldemort.

“Does empathy mean nothing to you?” Harry asked, realizing that he might never see Ron or Hermione or Ginny again.

“Immortality means everything to me,” Voldemort said, leaning down so his face was right in front of Harry’s. “If you will excuse me. I have soul pieces to round up.”

“What? You mean you don’t have all your Horcruxes with you?” Surely, if Voldemort really cared about his Horcruxes, he would keep them with him, where he could see that they were safe?

Voldemort chuckled darkly. “Not the Horcruxes, dearest. The destroyed pieces. The ones now anchor-less may be returned to me.”

“Ones? I only destroyed your diary!” Harry said.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. “This pleases me,” he said. “Albus Dumbledore worked on his own, then, to seek out my ring.”

“What? Dumbledore?” Harry perked up. “You know something about Dumbledore?”

“Only that the old fool has less than a year to live,” Voldemort retorted, and left, closing the door behind him, locking it with a click.

Harry stared after the Dark Lord. Dumbledore had less than a year to live? Dumbledore was dying?

Dumbledore was dying.

Dumbledore was dying and Harry was locked up in Malfoy Manor with Voldemort.

Harry would never see Dumbledore again. Dumbledore would die, and Harry wouldn’t even get to go to the funeral.

Harry would never see his friends again. Brave, loyal Ron! Ron, who tried to teach Harry chess, Ron, who welcomed Harry into his home. Clever Hermione, who fought so had against the stereotypes telling her who and what she was! Hermione who would not stand for prejudice, who fought to free House Elves, who mastered every skill she encountered!

And Ginny! Harry would never see the pretty redhead again, never see her Bat Bogey Hexes, the ones strong enough to rival her temper and enthusiasm.

Harry curled up on the bed and cried.

Some time later, Voldemort was back. Harry’s tears had dried on his face, and he was wrapped up in the duvet.

Voldemort’s hand found its way to Harry’s back.

“Harry, dearest,” he murmured.

His hand felt warm.

Wait, warm? Voldemort’s hands were cold!

“Harry. I did not mean to make you upset.”

Harry turned around at that, retort at the tip of his tongue, but that was forgotten when he saw Voldemort.

The formerly snake-faced man now looked to be in his early twenties. He had high, distinct cheekbones, wavy brown hair, pale, creamy skin, glittering ruby eyes, and plump pink lips.

He was gorgeous.

Delectable.

“Voldemort?” he gasped.

“It is I,” the man confirmed, his voice deep, sending shivers down Harry’s back. Harry’s prick began to stiffen.

He shouldn’t be thinking these things about Lord Voldemort, the man who killed his parents! He shouldn’t be wanting Voldemort the way he was, and certainly shouldn’t act on those desires - not that Voldemort, with the antiquated opinion he’d spewed earlier, would be amenable - he’d catch It, then, and It would kill him.

He’d first heard about It from his Uncle. ‘Gets rid of those bloody sodomites,’ Vernon had said. ‘Not a problem for healthy, normal people like us, Pet.”

Aunt Petunia had worried about a ‘nasty homosexual’ infecting her ‘precious Diddykins.’ 

‘Nonsense!’ Vernon had exclaimed. ‘Our Dudley’s a boisterous young man, he’s not a faggot!’

Cedric Diggory had told him about It later. ‘My uncle had it,’ Cedric said. ‘He died.’

Harry had firmly resolved never to engage in intercourse with men, after that. He had no desire to die of It. And if he contracted It, he would be cast out from his Aunt and Uncle’s house for carrying the ‘homosexual disease’ and being one of the ‘nasty homosexuals.’

That wasn’t something Harry was going to risk happening. He’d resolved to live a life of self-induced celibacy to avoid infection.

“Why do you look so… young?” asked Harry, finding another reason he shouldn’t be attracted to Voldemort: the man was nearly seventy!

A small voice in his head told him that if he was going to be trapped with only Voldemort for company, he might as well take everything he could get.

(Voldemort was unattainable, he told that part of himself. Voldemort was a raging homophobe.)

“I reabsorbed the pieces of my soul from my diary and my ring,” Voldemort said. “Splitting one’s soul does odd things to the ageing process, and I was sixteen and eighteen when I made those Horcruxes. In a way, I am not much older than that now.”

See? Argued the traitorous voice in Harry’s head. He’s the same age you are.

When Voldemort left for the second time, Harry resigned himself to the reality that he was very much attracted to the Dark Lord Voldemort. Ah, well. He might as well have a good wank while he still could.

Harry slipped his pants off - and Merlin, he was still wearing the same bloodstained pants he’d had on this morning at the Dursley’s - and reached down to stroke his prick to full hardness.

It didn’t take long, after Voldemort’s heady presence. The man was exquisite, and even his ruby eyes screamed ‘sex.’ Harry longed to run his hands down the muscles he imagined beneath the long, flowing robes, to kiss those plump lips, to feel those long fingers on him, in him.

He climaxed embarrassingly quickly, with a moan barely stifled by the soft pillows he had his face buried in.


	3. The Treasured One

A House Elf appeared after what must have been a few hours, holding a tray of food. “Master Harry Potter is to be eating!” squeaked the creature. “Here is Master Harry Potter’s food, Master Harry Potter, sir!”

“Thank you,” Harry said. “What is your name?”

“My name is being Pippy, Master Harry Potter, sir!”

“You don’t have to call me Master,” Harry said.

“Pippy is wanting to, Master Harry Potter, sir!” said the enthusiastic little creature.

Harry smiled down at the elf. “Well, thank you, Pippy.”

She was wearing more than Dobby. She had a uniform on, a tunic with an elaborate ‘M’ embroidered on the shoulder. “Did you make your clothes yourself?” he asked curiously.

The elf shook her head. “Oh, no, Master Harry Potter, sir! The seamstress elf, Stitchy bes her name, makes the clothes for us and when Pippy’s family is wanting something custom made! Stitchy is making Master Lord Riddle’s Eater robes, too! Master Lord Riddle is very pleased with Stitchy and is using her more than Pippy’s Master Lucius!”

“Master Lord Riddle?” Harry asked, amused, wondering if Voldemort knew what the House Elves called him.

“Pippy’s granny elf was telling of Master Lord Riddle, before he was Master’s Master. Pippy’s granny elf was saying Master Lord Riddle was a friend of Old Master Abraxas!”

“Really? Tell me more!” Harry leaned in, eager to hear about Voldemort’s youth. How did a man become a monster, anyway?

“Master Lord Riddle used to visit the Manor at Yule,” said Pippy. “Pippy is sorry, Master Harry Potter, sir, Pippy does not know any more.”

“That’s okay, Pippy,” said Harry. “Can - can I talk to Stitchy? I have a friend who is very interested in House Elves, she’s worried you’re abused.”

“Oh, no, Master Harry Potter, sir!” Pippy sounded appalled. “Some House Elves is having very bad masters - but not Pippy, sir! Pippy is remembering Dobby the House Elf, sir, who ripped at his clothes and would not have them mended! Pippy thinks there was a problem with Dobby’s bond, that he did not enjoy his work!”

She was now flapping her hands, appearing quite flustered.

“It’s okay, Pippy. I’d like to hear more, but if it upsets you you don’t have to talk about it.”

“Master Harry Potter is such a kind master!” Pippy gushed. “Pippy is wanting to say more. Pippy and Stitchy and the other House Elves are having a special wizard-elf bond that makes elves happy when they are ordered and do their masters’ wishes! Most House Elves are being happier when they have the bond than without. That is what makes House Elves special among elves, Master Harry Potter, sir! Pippy is proud to be a House Elf and proud to serve the glorious Malfoy family!”

“I’m glad you’re happy, Pippy,” Harry murmured. “Thank you for telling me.”

Hermione would be fascinated to hear what the elf had just told Harry. He wondered if Voldemort would ever let him contact her again, let alone see her. A tear spilled from one of his eyes.

“Master Harry Potter is crying!” Pippy squeaked in alarm. “Do not cry, Master Harry Potter! Master Harry Potter must eat, says Master Lord Riddle. Master Harry Potter is fetching Master Lord Riddle to make Master Harry Potter better so he eats!”

“No, Pippy, it’s okay!” Harry wasn’t sure he could stand Voldemort’s presence when he had just wanked to the thought of the handsome wizard. “I’m eating, see?” He picked up a finger-sized cucumber sandwich and popped it into his mouth.

Pippy looked satisfied, and disappeared with a pop.

Harry was not particularly hungry, though, and after the one tiny sandwich to appease Pippy, he ate nothing. This was fine for half an hour, until the air in front of him shimmered and the House Elf herself appeared, a disapproving look on her face.

“Master Lord Riddle warned Pippy, and Master Lord Riddle was right!” she said. “Master Harry Potter cannot be trusted to eat by himself! Very well, then. Pippy is not trusting the sneaky Master Harry Potter, and is fetching Master Lord Riddle!”

Pippy disappeared with another pop. This time, Harry poked the air where she had been to check she wasn’t still there, and found nothing. She really had gone.

But it wasn’t long before Voldemort himself entered Harry’s room and crossed to Harry’s side.

“What’s this I hear about you refusing food?” Voldemort hissed. Arousal stirred in Harry’s groin at that voice.

“I’m not hungry,” Harry said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He was famished. But he didn’t feel like eating.

“You must eat, boy!” Voldemort inspected the food on Harry’s tray. “Is this not suitable fare?”

“No, it’s fine!” said Harry. The Dursleys had never fed Harry such posh food, and the Hogwarts school meals were hearty, family meals, not decorative things that barely looked like real food.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, and Harry realized too late that the Dark Lord was a talented Legilimens and could probably read Harry’s mind without Harry realizing.

“You have not eaten in two days!” he hissed.

Harry gulped.

“This is not suitable, then, is it, Potter? You will be ill if you eat this! But you will eat, hear me? You will eat! Pippy!”

The elf appeared and ducked her head to Voldemort.

“Fetch Harry a bowl of broth,” directed Voldemort. “Warm, not hot. And a spoon.”

“Pippy will, Master Lord Riddle!”

Pippy was gone and back in less than five minutes with a steaming bowl. Harry grinned, mentally replaying Voldemort’s directive of ‘warm, not hot.’

“She’s overenthusiastic, but she gets the job done,” muttered Voldemort when Pippy had gone.

“Overenthusiastic!” snorted Harry. “You think?”

Voldemort grinned, and he was stupidly, stupidly handsome. Harry found himself blushing and looking away.

Voldemort had the bowl in one of his hands, the spoon in the other. “Come here, Harry,” he said. Hesitatingly, Harry crawled closer.

“Open your mouth,” said Voldemort, and Harry realized what the man was planning. He was going to spoonfeed him!

He did, for nothing but the reason that being spoonfed by the Dark Lord Voldemort had to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

It was glorious. The gentle touch of Voldemort’s hands on Harry’s chin, holding it steady, the brush of long fingers, once cold, now warm like any other human’s, the tenderness Voldemort looked at him with.

Harry could have swooned.

Even if the man was a raging homophobe.

Finally, the bowl was empty and Voldemort released Harry’s chin. Harry felt almost… empty, without the gentle, reassuring touch of Voldemort’s hand.

“Can I write to Hermione?” he asked on a whim.

“Hermione?” questioned Voldemort.

“Once of my friends. Her name is Hermione.”

Voldemort hesitated, biting one of his luscious lips. And oh, how Harry longed to be the one biting those lips! He would bring his teeth down, squeeze the soft flesh, and suck, and Voldemort would moan into Harry’s mouth, his hands around Harry’s waist sliding, sliding, finding their way inside his waistband and down, further, further, further, until Harry was reduced to begging on his knees for his Lord, for daring bite Voldemort himself...

“Yes,” said Voldemort at last, breaking Harry out of his impossible fantasy. “You may. You may not, however, mention your current location.”

“Okay,” said Harry. And then, to be safe, “thank you!”

“Think nothing of it,” Voldemort told him. “You are my Horcrux, my treasure, my very soul. You deserve nothing but luxury.”

Harry found the flush of his cheeks darkening at that. Voldemort was endearingly sexy, when he called Harry his own! Harry found himself enjoying feeling being valued, treasured for what he was. Not for being the Boy-Who-Lived, not for being the Chosen One, not for something he hadn’t really done himself - not for his dead mother’s work - but for being himself. For simply existing.

He could get used to this unconditional appreciation.

It was oh so tempting, to imagine himself loved and cherished by a man he could love back. A man who was not, and had never been a monster. A person it was safe to love, a person it was safe to touch, without fear of persecution or illness.

Alas, it was not to be.


	4. To Adorn Another

That evening Voldemort returned. “It is night,” said the Dark Lord. “Are you still hungry?”

Harry shook his head. “No. As you pointed out yourself, I haven’t eaten much lately. I’m still stuffed.”

“I thought so.” said Voldemort. “Sleep. I will return in the morning.”

He left without another word, leaving Harry to silence and the wanderings of his thoughts. Harry turned the light out, but tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

It had been a confusing day.

First his Uncle’s anger - apparently Harry had looked at him the wrong way, and after breaking the vase - which Harry maintained hadn’t been him, it was Dudley - and then the massacre of his relatives, which he suspected was something to do with the suddenly enormous plant Neville had given him. And then he’d been snatched from his own home - which wasn’t really his home, really, Hogwarts was his only home - but still, by Death Eaters, and brought to Voldemort, and now Voldemort was telling Harry how special he was and how protected and safe he would be?

And Voldemort looked normal!

He had a nose, for Merlin’s sake!

Harry couldn’t help but be attracted to the man.

Good Merlin, Harry was attracted to Voldemort. He really was. Attracted to Voldemort as in ‘would fuck if there wasn’t the constant threat of disease.’

That was a strange, strange thought.

No stranger, though, than the world Harry had found himself living in. Hadn’t he been just as astonished to discover magic was real?

The next morning, Harry was woken by a hand on his shoulder, and the whisper of his name. “Harry? Harry, wake up.”

He stirred, wondering why the old, flattened mattress in his room was suddenly so comfortable, before he remembered where he was.

“Voldemort?” he asked.

“Yes, Harry, dearest,” said the Dark wizard. “It is time you met your hosts.”

“I don’t want to,” said Harry, and shut his eyes stubbornly.

“My dearest Horcrux,” said Voldemort, the hand on Harry’s shoulder suddenly becoming a lot tighter and less comfortable. “I did not ask whether you wanted to. I told you you were going to. Up. I have clothes for you to wear.”

This time Harry got up, and noticed Voldemort wearing flowing black robes with emerald green detailing. The robes he held out for Harry to put on were a bright emerald green, with black trim.

Harry stripped, intensely uncomfortable about being naked in front of the attractive wizard, but changed into the brightly colored robes as Voldemort asked.

He inspected himself in the mirror. Standing beside Voldemort, the Dark wizard’s hand on his shoulder, they looked like a couple. His throat went dry at the prospect.

“I look like an ornament,” he said out loud, because he kind of did. His robes weren’t quite practical - they were form fitting until the waist, and didn’t allow enough leg movement for duelling. He felt quite made-up, all painted to be pretty on a pedestal. Maybe that’s what he was.

Voldemort confirmed this thought. “Your presence demonstrates my absolute power and impending victory,” he told Harry. “That I, the Dark Lord Voldemort, have their precious Light Golden Boy and Savior under my wing will send a quiver through the hearts of all remaining Light supporters.”

What Harry really thought, though, was that he looked like a prettied up partner for the Dark Lord. 

That reminded him…

“Why do you dislike gay wizards?” he asked.

Voldemort’s ruby eyes narrowed. “I do not dislike gay wizards,” he said in an oddly detached voice. “I merely pity those suffering from sexual inversion, as most do.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Homosexuality is not natural, Potter,” Voldemort said… almost as though he were repeating it from a book. Reciting a passage, the way Hermione did in class.

“You think gay people choose to be gay?”

“Well - choose is not the word I’d use,” said Voldemort, licking his lower lip.

“You think being gay is a disorder?” Harry asked.

Voldemort pinched the bridge of his newly-back nose. “It is in the medical literature, Potter. It is a serious mental disorder with no known cure.”

“I see,” said Harry. “Why do you care so much?”

The question was a blunt one. But Harry cared, and if he was going to be spending his time with Voldemort he wanted to know. Harry’s own sexuality was none of Voldemort’s concern, but if the Dark wizard had such a negative and blatantly false opinion…

Hermione had found Harry in tears, once, crying over his newly realized gayness. She had been the one to assure him that being gay itself was not wrong, was not dirty.

No. Harry knew that now. It was just AIDS making gay sex dirty. Just AIDS, making it not worth pursuing a relationship.

“I do not wish to answer such questions.” said Voldemort tightly.

“It will make me happy!” Harry gritted out. “Me, your - your Horcrux!”

He hated the word. He hated being part of Voldemort, he hated being Voldemort’s thing. And he loved it, and he craved it, and the world was the wrong way round.

Harry couldn’t enjoy being cared for, no matter how shaky it was, when it was Voldemort who claimed to care for him.

How he longed to enjoy it!

“I am not a slave to your whims!” snapped Voldemort. “For your insolence you will be left to endure solitude!”

“What?” Harry asked. Was Voldemort going to leave him alone?

The Dark Lord stormed from Harry’s room, slamming the door behind him.

After Voldemort had gone, Harry was surrounded by silence, pure, unbroken silence, eerie, haunted, silence.

He couldn’t stand it! Not here, not when he was in the presence of Voldemort, not when Voldemort was trying to be so unbearably nice! It was easier to be hated by the evil than to be valued.

Harry screamed.

He kicked at the door, throwing books and pillows. Something had to give! He could not live like this! He wanted to go home.

Home.

To Hogwarts, the castle he’d found hope and love and joy in.

To the Burrow, where he’d found family.

Did the Weasleys know where he was? Probably not. They thought he was with his relatives, and weren't expecting to see him until September.

Nobody knew where he was.

Nobody knew he’d been ripped from the Dursleys’ house. Nobody knew the Dursleys were dead, rotting in their own living room.

Well, he amended, the Muggle police probably knew. But they had no records of Harry.

How were they to know he was missing when he had never existed?

Harry shouted and screamed until his throat was raw, angry with everything. He wasn’t even sure all the white hot burning rage was his own, or if he was riding the wave or drowning in it.

His voice wore out eventually. He slumped to the floor, dragging in ragged breaths, still shaking in his anger. 

How dare Voldemort keep him from his friends!

How dare the Death Eaters kill his relatives! And he was sure they had - who else would be so violent? And for no reason other than they were Muggles, too!

Dudley hadn’t deserved it. He’d been rotten to Harry but he was just a child. An innocent child!

Harry pinched himself to try and snap himself out of his violent imagining. Nobody deserved to be mauled the way the Dursleys had, he told himself, disgusted in the blooming relief in his chest.

He’d never have to go back.

Was this new life better, or worse?


	5. Hedwig and Hermione

Harry was bored.

Voldemort had not come to see him. Pippy the House Elf had been by more than sixteen times - he'd stopped counting, then - each time with a tray of food. Harry had picked bits out and eaten them, but left most of the meals untouched.

There was nothing to do.

Only that wasn’t quite true, was it?

He could write to Hermione!

But for that, he needed something to write on. Maybe the elf could bring him supplies?

“Pippy?” he called out.

Nothing happened.

Oh well. He’d just have to make do. He scrounged around the room, looking for a quill or pen to write with, and something to write on. The bedside table had a drawer containing a stack of paper and a few ballpoint pens. Jackpot!

Harry began to write.  
_  
Dear Hermione,_

_Something very strange has happened._

_I don’t think I’m in danger, but Voldemort’s Death Eaters came to my relatives’ house. My relatives are dead, and I am in (oh sorry, I can’t say!) but you can guess._

_This is very important: Voldemort made something called Horcruxes, and while they still exist he can’t properly die. Also he says Professor Dumbledore is dying._

_Voldemort says, when he came and killed my parents, and my mother’s love protected me, he accidentally made me into one of his Horcruxes. So in order for him to die, I have to die, too._

Here he paused, biting his lip, not sure if he was ready to admit it on paper.

_I don’t want to die._

And there it was. What was his life worth? Was it okay to live and let Voldemort win? Okay to sacrifice other people for himself? Was he being a selfish prat?

Maybe he was.

His hand shook, letting droplets of ink fall onto the page, spreading and staining it black. He put away the pen and folded up his letter to Hermione, and then realized something.

Hedwig!

Hedwig! His owl, his companion since he first discovered magic, was still at the Dursleys’! He could not send a letter without an owl, but more importantly, his owl, his pet, was still locked in an empty home with no food and no water and no idea of when or if she would be let out!

He pounded on the door and screamed to be let out.

“It’s open!” called the rich voice of Voldemort from somewhere nearby.

...wait, what?

Harry tried the doorknob. As Voldemort said, the door was open.

Voldemort was leaning in the doorway a few doors down from where Harry now stood. He looked haggard, as if he hadn’t eaten in days, there were bags under his ruby eyes and he was slumped against the doorframe, but he wore neatly pressed robes and regarded Harry with no expression on his handsome face.

“Oh,” said Harry, feeling quite stupid.  
“Yes,” drawled Voldemort, eyes glinting. “What was all that racket about?”

“My owl!” Harry said. “My owl, Hedwig - she’s still at the Dursleys’!”

“Where?”

“My relatives’ house! The place your minions took me from!”

Voldemort raised a seemingly sculpted eyebrow. “Minions, hmm?”

“I need my owl!” Harry insisted. “She hasn’t eaten in I don’t know how long, she could be severely dehydrated by now! I’ve got to get her out now! Where’s the door to this place, anyway?”

“You’re not getting away from me that easily, dearest Horcrux. If there truly is an owl, as you say-”

“There is!” Harry interrupted.

“Then my… minions, as you so eloquently put it, are more than capable of retrieving it.” finished Voldemort.

“Fine! But I need her back soon. Today!” Harry said fiercely, intensity burning in his green eyes.

“I will have it done,” Voldemort assured him. 

“Do you swear?” Harry asked. “Do you swear you will?”

“I swear, Potter,” said Voldemort.

Harry wanted to trust him. Wanted to be able to trust him.

But this was Lord Voldemort, a homicidal maniac.

Two Death Eaters appeared. Bellatrix and… Barty Crouch Jr?

“Barty,” Harry commented, surprised.

“He did not die, Harry, I told you this before, forgetful boy,” Voldemort said. “Barty, Bella - return to Potter’s home and retrieve his owl. Harry, where is your owl?”

“The - the cupboard under the stairs,” Harry stammered. Vernon had shoved them there in his fury.

“Right. Barty, Bella - fetch Potter’s owl.” Voldemort said.

“Yes, my Lord,” simpered Bellatrix, bowing deeply. Her neckline was loose, and hung open when she did. Barty side-eyed her, bowing as well. He turned on his heel, Disapparating twith a sharp crack, Bellatrix just behind him.

“Thank you,” Harry said, looking down at his feet to avoid the handsome Dark Lord’s face.

“You are… welcome, Harry,” said Voldemort, sounding unsure of himself. Suddenly Harry felt like he was intruding on a private moment.

“Should I… go? Somewhere?” he asked.

“If you wish,” said Voldemort quietly. “I do not require you to do so.”

Harry went halfway back into his room, but hadn’t made it to anywhere in particular before he sighed, his whole body slumping.

What was the point anyway?

He went back out, this time meeting Voldemort’s eyes. The glowing ruby orbs nearly had him turning tail and running away, but he would not. He swallowed, balling his hands into fists. He was Harry Potter, son of James and Lily. He was a Gryffindor. He had stopped Quirinus Quirrel stealing the Philosopher’s Stone, he had defeated a basilisk, he had freed an innocent hippogriff and his own godfather, he had competed in and won the Triwizard Tournament despite being by far the youngest competitor, and he had withstood repeated government sanctioned torture.

He could look a devastatingly handsome devil in the eye without running and hiding.

“Do you have plans for me?” Harry asked, trying with all his might to keep his voice steady.

“I do not,” revealed Voldemort. “Other than your continued safety.”

“I am bored, alone.” Harry stared up at Voldemort. “I want stuff to do.”

“Stuff,” Voldemort repeated. “Stuff. What kind of ‘stuff’ do you want?”

“Company,” Harry said. “I want company, things to read.”

“Does Lucius not have books in his guest rooms?”

“He does, yeah, but they’re…” Harry made a face. “Old books.”

“Not much of a reader, then, my dearest Horcrux?” Voldemort said.

Harry shook his head wryly. “No, not really.”

“I see. Then what would please you?”

“Freedom. But if I can’t have that, I’d like… I don’t know, maybe… games? And company! I miss talking to people.”

What was it other people did when they had freetime? Ron played chess, didn’t he?

Voldemort nodded once. “Then it will be done as you ask.”

“Can my friends visit?” Harry asked.

Voldemort shook his head. “I do not trust them not to try and break you out, misguidedly believing they are doing what is best for you.”

“Oh?” Harry squared his jaw. “You don’t trust your own wards? Your own Death Eaters?”

Voldemort snarled. “Have it your way! Which ones do you want?”

Harry blinked. It was that easy? “Hermione Granger,” he said, “and Ron Weasley.”

“Granger,” said Voldemort, drawing out her last name, “I don’t believe I’ve heard of the family. Related to the Dagworth-Grangers, perhaps?”

Harry shook his head. “She’s - she’s Muggleborn.”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. 

“She’s my best friend!” Harry added. “I want her!”

“Head on a platter?” A smile tugged at the edge of Voldemort’s mouth. “The classic.”

Harry balked. “No! No! No! I want to see her - alive and well - I want her alive! I want her to be okay! I want her to stay safe and healthy and okay!”

“All right then. Your friends will visit - is that enough for you?”

Harry gulped. “Freedom?”

Voldemort’s eyes burned with anger. “Never,” he said. “You are mine.”

Harry held his place.

“It would be best,” Voldemort gritted out, “if you would leave my presence for some time.”

“Can I explore?”

“Just go!”

Harry did.


	6. Lestrange Sex Education

Harry 'just went’ down the corridor of his room - or rather, the room he was staying in - and took a few turns before he reached somewhere that wasn’t bedrooms. How many people was Malfoy Manor supposed to host?

He had found a room with sofas and coffee tables. He at first thought it was empty, but as he went inside he noticed two men sitting in the corner over a chess board.

“Hello?” he called, really wishing he had his wand, because they were probably Death Eaters, but at the same time, surely they wouldn’t dare harm him if Voldemort was keeping him?

They both looked over at him. They were clean shaven, with sandy hair on the tops of their heads, and were identical.

“Um, hi!” Harry said.

“It’s the Potter boy,” said one of them. “Hey, kiddo. I’m Rodolphus and this is Rabastan.”

“Um. I’d introduce myself, but you’ve already done it.”

The other man, Rabastan, grinned. “So, what happened to you? We thought we were supposed to be seeing you some time ago!”

Harry looked down at his feet. “I may have made Voldemort a bit angry.”

“Here this, Rod? He calls our Lord by his name!” laughed Rabastan.

“He’s a Gryffindor, what did you expect,” replied Rodolphus. “Sorry about Bast, by the way, kid, he can be a bit juvenile.”

“Juvenile? Really, Pot?” cackled Rabastan.

“Oh, shut it Kettle,” said Rodolphus, but there was good humor in his tone.

“You must be the Lestrange brothers,” said Harry.

Rabastan nodded. “That’s us! We were kind of famous around the time you must have been born…”

“Yes. Funnily enough, I was famous around then too.”

Rodolphus laughed. “Kid’s got a sense of humor!”

“And,” continued Harry, “I’m not famous for killing people.”

Rabastan made a thoughtful noise. “Actually I think you are.”

“What! No!”

Rodolphus smiled and elbowed his brother. “You are, you killed our Lord!”

“Shame I didn’t really,” said Harry, then realized what he had said and clapped his hands over his mouth. “I didn’t mean to! It’s habit! It’s what I say to Ron and Hermione sometimes, I didn’t mean to… good grief, you’ve got wands! You can kill me!”

Rabastan and Rodolphus exchanged glances.

“No, we can’t, actually,” said Rabastan. “We’d be absolutely brutalized.”

“I doubt it. Aren’t you supposed to… his… biggest supporters?” Harry chuckled darkly.

“And you are, for some reason he will not explain, under his protection. If we so much as breathe on you the wrong way, we’re dead.”

“Oh. I see.”

“And,” said Rodolphus, leaning forward, “he has quite a few more Death Eaters than he lets on. We’re everywhere by now. Don’t go thinking you personally lost this war - we would have taken the country anyway, had you running from Snatchers. Without you, it might have taken another year or so, but it would have happened regardless.”

“Are you sure? I thought I was the Light’s key player,” Harry whispered.

“That’s the problem with Seekers,” shrugged Rabastan. “Always thinking their role is the biggest. Now Harry, you are important, yes, but not that important. The war can’t be lost on account of one man.”

“On the contrary,” argued Rodolphus, “armies are made up of individuals.”

“So tell me, kid, do you have any idea why our Lord wants you safe?” asked Rabastan, kicking his brother in the shin.

Rodolphus glared but there was no malice behind it.

“I do,” said Harry hesitantly, “but I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“We are already on his side,” Rabastan drawled.

Harry cracked a smile. “Well, I know that! But I think it’s supposed to be some kind of secret, or at least that’s the sense I get when he talks about it.”

“Aha!” said Rabastan, eyes lighting up. “He talks about it, does he? With you?”

Harry shrugged. “Well, yeah. It concerns me, I mean… in a quite intimate fashion.”

“Intimate, hmm?” Rabastan wriggled his eyebrows. Next to him, Rodolphus hid his face in his hands.

“Forget I was here,” he moaned through his fingers.

Harry flushed. “Not like - not like that, Merlin, no, do you think I’m an idiot? I don’t want to die!”

“Die?” Rabastan snickered. “I don’t think even our Lord could be such a good fuck!”

“That’s not what I meant, actually,” said Harry, now thoroughly embarrassed. “How did you know I’m gay, anyway? Is it that obvious?”

Rabastan laughed even more loudly at that, and Rodolphus had to glare at him quite severely to get him to shut up. “It’s not obvious, kiddo. To be honest, neither of us knew, but there’s nothing really unusual about fancying blokes, so… it seemed a logical conclusion.”

“Well, but no one really does… that, now, do they? Not with… It.”

“What?” prompted Rodolphus.

“The - the disease. The one gay people get.” Harry finished his sentence in a whisper.

“I still don’t follow, kiddo. What disease?” asked Rodolphus.

“AIDS,” said Harry quietly, fearfully, as if the virus itself was lurking behind him, about to pounce.

Rodolphus smiled gently. “Oh, Harry… AIDS isn’t a disease gay people get! AIDS is a disease people got from apes, probably hunting them and being in contact with their infected blood. People can spread it by having sex, but you don’t get infected with it just by having sex itself! The virus doesn’t spontaneously appear because you’re getting busy in the bedroom!”

“Or on the kitchen table,” Rabastan muttered. “Or the sofa. Or really anywhere you happen to do it.”

“But… but isn’t it killing off… gay people?” Harry asked. That was what his Uncle had always said, and Cedric, although he used nicer words, had agreed!

Rodolphus shrugged. “It is, but not because they’re gay. It’s because some gay people have sex with a lot of other people - Merlin, you’re barely sixteen, I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this - and if someone has sex with an infected person, and gets infected, they can pass it on. But Harry, it is not something that only infects gay people! Straight people, and bi people can get it, too. And the virus itself doesn’t do the killing - it makes you susceptible to being killed by other diseases.”

“Oh.” Harry studied his nails. He hadn’t known any of that. It was hard to believe after so many years of believing It… AIDS… inevitable after any kind of sex he might want. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” confirmed Rodolphus. “And if one person is infected there are things you can do to lessen the risk of them infecting you, like wearing a rubber if they’re going to be penetrating you or you’re going to be penetrating them, a mouth guard if you’re going to be doing oral, and if you’re the one doing the penetrating you’re less likely to get it from the other person.”

“I see,” said Harry. “How do you know all this?”

He realized a moment too late that this might not be something Rodolphus was willing to share.

“Sorry! You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to!”

Rodolphus chuckled. “I don’t mind. Rabastan and I are gay.”

Harry gaped. “But - but Voldemort really didn’t seem to like gay people!”

The Lestrange brothers shared a look, then shrugged as one. They rather reminded Harry of Fred and George.

“Very forward, aren’t you?” commented Rabastan.

“I’m a Gryffindor,” Harry offered as explanation.

Rabastan nodded. “Red and gold. It would suit your hair, but your eyes… you’d look stunning in green.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Slytherin.”

Rabastan didn’t deny it.

“I’ll get Barty to agree with him,” smirked Rodolphus. “Just you wait.”

“What’s so special about Barty’s opinion?” Harry wanted to know.

“He’s a Ravenclaw,” Rabastan informed him.

“What?” Harry found himself gaping for the second time in five minutes. “I thought you’d all be Slytherins!”

Rodolphus shook his head. “A lot of us are, yes, but Pettigrew was a Gryffindor, and Rowle was a Hufflepuff, actually.”

“A Hufflepuff!” Harry exclaimed. “I thought they were the nice guys!”

“That’s what they want you to think,” Rabastan said. “But they’re not actually nice, they’re just incredibly loyal. And in Rowle’s case… that loyalty is to our Lord.”

“Woah,” was the only statement Harry’s brilliant mind could come up with.

Rodolphus smirked. “There’s a lot more to the Houses than you might think.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Um. I didn’t know that.”

He hadn’t. In fact, he hadn’t thought much into the traits of the Houses other than Gryffindors being brave, Hufflepuffs being loyal, Ravenclaws being clever, and Slytherins being… well. Sneaky. And he had rather associated the House of the Serpent with ‘evil’ in his head, now that he thought about it. His schoolyard nemesis Draco Malfoy was a Slytherin, as was his hated Professor Snape, and his lifelong enemy Voldemort.

The Houses and the Sorting, Harry thought, sounded like something Hermione might know about.

“I, um, think I’ll be off now, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Thanks for explaining stuff to me.”

“No problem, kid. I’ve ruined enough people’s lives, probably need to do some good for people on our side to be more than just a sadistic killer. Any time.” said Rodolphus.

“And you’re a good kid. We’re always ready to help younger gay blokes brave the world of homosexuality!” added Rabastan.

Harry smiled at them and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry kind of was the Light side's key player because he had Voldemort's life in his hands, but the Lestranges have no way of knowing that.


End file.
